


my heart keeps fighting (in this battle of fools)

by kithtattoo



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, F/F, you can call me the captain of this ship lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23884288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kithtattoo/pseuds/kithtattoo
Summary: Rose soon notices there’s not much difference between being a tattoo artist and a florist: both have everlasting concerns with color, both care deeply about meaning and intention, both work and feel with their hands, both are interested in the outcome of their creations.She supposes being a florist, too, is like being an artist, and if that’s true then the woman in front of her is a prime example of this.//or, the one where Mal is a level-headed florist and Rose is a clueless tattoo artist.
Relationships: Rose Lavelle/Mallory Pugh
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	my heart keeps fighting (in this battle of fools)

**Author's Note:**

> i've thinking about this ship for a while now, and this story has been sitting on my docs since february. feels good to finally let it out. thank you to all my twitter friends for the support, couldn't do it without them, and i hope y'all finally get on board with this ship.
> 
> unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine (and i'll come fix them in the morning).
> 
> song title from wolves, by one direction.

Five months later, whenever anyone asks, Rose will say it started because of a client’s request for a flower-themed tattoo.

Mal will have other ideas.

She will say it started with Rose being a stuttering, oblivious mess around cute girls. She will remember the meaning of flowers in contrast to meaningless tattoos, pizza shops and soccer games, closing the parlor late at night and Rose’s inability to care for any living thing.

That’s something they’ll never fully agree on, and, for Rose, that’s okay.

//

The first time Rose sees her, it’s a thursday afternoon, and she’s just finished the newest addition to Ashlyn’s ever-growing sleeve: the faces of two greek gods mashed together taking up the biggest part of her forearm. It’s a beautiful design they made together, and Rose loves how it manages to look both modern and classic. 

“Looks great, lil’ Rosie,” Ashlyn says, twisting her arm in front of the full length mirror in order to get a closer look at the tattoo from a bunch of different angles. “You just keep getting better, kid.”

Rose squints her eyes. “Maybe next time you can give me a real challenge.”

“Next time I’ll just ask Tobin to tattoo me instead.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Rose gasps, faking indignation before telling Ashlyn to sit down so she can bandage her up.

She carefully applies a thin layer of vaseline on Ashlyn’s new ink, bandaging it and giving her client a small bottle of antibiotic ointment to hydrate the tattoo during the following days. Aftercare is important, so Rose lays down the rules even though she knows Ashlyn has heard them a thousand times before: no sun, no swimming, no fatty foods and no alcohol. Ink needs to be properly cleaned everyday, but most importantly needs to breathe. 

While she’s cleaning up her station, throwing away used needles and emptied tubes of ink, she feels Ashlyn come up behind her and kiss her soundly on the cheek in gratitude, and the older woman laughs when she tries to squirm away.

“No more tribal tattoos,” she yells, but Ashlyn’s too far away to listen.

Chuckling through her nose, she does her best to clean her workplace, since she’s got another appointment in 15 minutes. Her friend Caitlin wants angel wings tattooed on her back and, hey, she’s just the artist, alright? It’s not her fault her friends always want the craziest-slash-cringiest tattoo designs possible. Like when she tattooed flames coming out of a surfboard right on Tobin’s calf, or when Lindsey, Sonny and Cait begged her to do the same tattoo on all of them, some obscure kiss reference Rose was sure meant the three of them had had group sex. 

Not all of her designs are as chaotic, though. Rose keeps pictures of the best ones right there on her station, high on the wall so she can look at them all the time - the intricate dragon tattoo Pinoe wanted on her left leg, which took 5 sessions and over 30 hours of work; very detailed and colorful mandala designs; and one drawing she did on Sonnett she never fully understood the meaning of, just knows it takes up Sonny’s entire back and it’s related to something called _heda_. 

As much as Ashlyn jokes about tattooing with anyone else, she knows Rose’s the best, and Rose knows it too. Her coworkers are talented, but no one can do watercolors or minimalist tats or geometric nature quite like her. 

(She keeps pictures of her worst designs on her phone, though, as a way to humble herself. She never takes her job for granted, but sometimes she needs to be reminded of the days she was just a broke art student trying to make ends meet, who was immediately welcomed by a purple-haired lesbian goddess who saw potential in her.)

Rose washes and dries her hands quickly, moving to the front desk of the parlor to chat with her co-workers until Caitlin arrives. It’s the early afternoon still, so she knows Pinoe is probably out buying them all sandwiches for lunch, but when she doesn’t see Tobin or Kelley lounging around with their backs hunched over sketchbooks or with their feet propped up on the counter and doesn’t hear any humming coming from their stations, she decides to step outside to look for them.

One year before, Tobin and Kelley sitting on the wood bench outside of the shop could only mean the two of them were either planning where to go on their next surf trip, or sharing a cigarette. Now, though, there’s no smoke in sight. In an effort to support one another and try to be healthier people, they both decided to quit at the same time, and Rose has to admit, they look pretty committed to the cause: Kelley adopted a mostly plant-based diet, Tobin started taking part in serious surfing competitions, and they both are a part of their community soccer league. 

Things looks good, and she can’t help but be proud of the two of them.

(She’d be caught dead actually saying that out loud, though. She loves them, but, like, not that much.)

Chatting quietly and pointing to the other side of the street, neither of them notice when Rose arrives. 

“What are you looking at?” Rose asks, leaning against the window wall of the shop. 

Kelley nods forward with her head. “Looks like we’ve got new neighbours.”

On the other side of the street, she sees two women taking various pots, vases and planters out of a bright yellow mini-van and carrying them through the doors of the freshly-vacant store directly across from the tattoo parlor.

Not even a month before, the space used to be occupied by a sports equipment store owned by Pinoe’s long-time friend, Abby Wambach. Two weeks ago, though, Abby met a really nice girl called Glennon, the two eloped out of nowhere, and were now selling surfboards and soccer balls and tennis rackets on the Mexican coast, living their best life miles away from perpetually dry Los Angeles.

Rose’s sight is immediately attracted to a big sign hanging above the glass doors, twigs and branches and flower petals curling around the words _Press and Pugh Floral Services_.

Judging by the way they can’t stop staring, she quickly senses Tobin and Kelley’s interest on the older of the two women, who clearly stands out with her wide smile and pink beanie. Rose, though, can’t quite tear her eyes away from the younger one. Her smile is just as bright, tanned skin contrasting with the jean jacket she wears, very appropriately carrying a vase of roses inside the store. Rose can’t quite put her finger on this feeling, though, but this girl just has the face of someone who deserves to be looked at.

Tobin clears her throat. “Well, I guess we better go help,” she says, her and Kelley standing up from the bench at the same time. 

Right as Rose pushes herself away from the window, intending on following them, she hears her name being called from somewhere down the street. “Oi, Rosie,” Cait yells, waving and jogging up to meet her. “Ready to give me some fresh ink?”

Rose scoffs. “Please. You better be ready for me.”

Cait laughs and gets inside the parlor, shoving Rose on the shoulder. She quickly turns around to peek at the flower shop, catching a glimpse of the girl from before throwing her head back laughing at something Kelley said, before following Cait inside.

She promptly shakes her head, shrugging of that weird feeling inside her chest, wondering why she’s occupying her mind with a stranger she’ll likely never think of again.

//

As it turns out, she’s wrong.

Three days later, right as she’s meticulously outlining the shape of an anchor on the underside of her friend Aubrey’s forearm, someone knocks on the glass door that separates her station from the parlour.

She grunts in response, letting whoever’s on the other side of the door know they can come in. 

From the corner of her eye, she sees Tobin stepping carefully inside of her station, aware of how Rose hates being disturbed while she works. “Sorry to interrupt, I’m just gonna leave this here,” she says, placing a small object with a _thud_ on top of a shelf.

Rose only hums, too focused on giving the tattoo the right shade and texture, tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration. 

She’s had this little habit of sticking out her tongue when she’s focused on something since she was a child, and the teasing evolved from her parents to her co-workers and even her boss. Just to be funny, Pinoe always says she’s gonna end up drooling all over a client someday, but that’s okay, because she can just pretend her drool is cleaning alcohol and roll with it. No one will ever notice.

It’s only when Rose is finished biding her goodbyes to Aubrey, handing her a small bottle of antibiotic lotion, that she sees it: a small cactus is sitting right on the shelf she keeps her aftercare products. 

Rose tilts her head, looking at the cactus.

She looks at the door.

She looks at the cactus again, resting on a vase decorated with a small pink ribbon, its thorns poking out, one or two flowers slowly blossoming through the pricks.

Rose picks it up, heading to the front parlour with the vase resting precariously on her hands so she won’t hurt herself. She finds Tobin and Pinoe on the front desk, working separately on opposite sides, so she marches up to them, setting the vase between the two women. 

They look up at her simultaneously, and she asks, “What’s this?”

Pinoe frowns, backing away from the computer. “It’s a cactus, Rose. Have you been sniffing too much tattoo ink? I told you you should wear a mask.”

Rose rolls her eyes, resting her hands on her hips. “You’re so funny, I know what it is. I mean what was it doing on my station?”

“Christen gave it to us,” Tobin answers, hunched over her sketchbook. When Rose stays silent, she lifts up her head, dropping her pencil on top of her green-oriented design. “The owner of the new flower shop across the street? She gave plants to all of us after Kel and I helped her move in. As a gift.”

“I got a basket of fuschias,” Pinoe says, leaning back against her chair. “Y’know, to match with the hair.”

“What did you get?” Rose asks Tobin.

“Tulips,” she answers, and Rose can’t help but notice how her cheeks turn immediately red. “Kelley got daisies,” she stutters out.

Rose frowns. “How come you all got nice flowers and I got a cactus?”

Pinoe chuckles quietly, going back to working on her computer, and Tobin shrugs, turning her attention to the shapes and colors of her drawing. 

Unable to stop feeling a little defensive about it, Rose stares grumply at the small plant, shooting daggers at it like they personally hurt her mom and now she wants to press charges. 

She glances up towards the glass windows, able to see the flower shop on the other side of the street. The same girl from before is on the sidewalk, carefully watering the plants hanging with wires on the outside of the place with a small spray bottle. She touches each petal and leaf with care and adoration, and Rose even thinks she sees her talking to them. 

She stares for a second, unable to look away, burning holes on the girl’s skull before she heads inside the flower store, almost as if she can feel the bad vibes emanating from Rose.

Huffing, Rose picks up the cactus, marching back to her station.

It _is_ a fitting choice for her, after all.

//

On Mondays, Rose has the privilege of only working the afternoons.

They don’t open on Sundays, and, this week, she thought it would be nice to stay home during the weekend, declining Sonny and Lindsey’s invitation to try a new food truck downtown, and passing on Pat and Sam telling her she could drop by for dinner anytime.

Her friends are so grown up sometimes that she feels like she’s falling behind, in a sense.

To try and feel more adult, she made plans with her mom to eat lunch before she had to go to work, and as much as she loves her mother, she can’t stand hearing about how her sisters are either getting married or trying for kids or buying houses. (Props to her mom for only leaving it implied how Rose is for sure not doing any of those things instead of explicitly saying it, thank you very much.)

Needless to say, Rose arrives to her shift feeling a little down, and when she enters the shop and is immediately drowned by the sound of laughter, she can’t help but feel a little angry and a lot overwhelmed, like she’s the only one not having a good time.

Pinoe is sitting behind the counter, fiddling with her computer like she always is since she broke her hand and was prevented from tattooing. On the leather couch on the corner of the room, Tobin and Kelley are cracking up so hard their faces look red, and there’s a figure Rose doesn’t know sitting on top of the wooden coffee table in front of them, talking animatedly with her hands. 

“Hey, you guys,” Rose drawls out, letting the confusion evident on her voice as she sets her backpack down. 

Tobin nods at her, while Pinoe mumbles a distracted _hi, rosie_ and Kelley points between her and the unknown woman in front of them, saying, “Rose, hey, this is Christen, she owns the flower shop across the street. Chris, _that’s_ Rose.”

Rose frowns briefly at the intonation of Kelley’s voice, but she soon recognizes the woman in front of her as one of the two girls from the flower shop, the older one. Up close, Rose can see how mesmerizing her green eyes are, and how her smile is just as bright to match, so contagious Rose immediately smiles back.

Christen - that’s her name - gets up from the coffee table to shake her hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Those two,” she shakes her head in Tobin and Kelley’s direction, “told me so much about you.”

Rose narrows her eyes. “Um, good things I hope.”

“Good enough for her to send you a cactus,” Tobin says, mischief in her eyes.

“Oh, I hope you weren’t offended by that,” Christen rushes out to say, widening her eyes. “My co-worker thought it would be a funny joke based on the things they told us about you. And it’d be too cliché to give you a rose.”

“It’s alright, don’t worry,” Rose says, chuckling slightly. “I hate to say it but, um, you got it spot on.”

“Prickly on the outside, soft on the inside,” Pinoe says, laughing. “That’s our very own Rose.”

Rose purses her lips, cheeks reddening at the sudden attention, so she clears her throat, asking Christen, “So, are you the Press or the Pugh?”

The woman in front of her frowns. “What?”

Rose points to the flower shop through the glass window. “ _Press and Pugh Floral Services_?”

“Oh,” Christen exclaims. “I’m the Press. Pugh is my co-worker, Mal.”

She sees Kelley giving her a pointed look behind Christen’s shoulder, and she frowns for a second, not understanding exactly what she means.

Rose turns to Pinoe as Christen sits back down, saying, “Um, Pinoe, I’ve got 30 minutes before my next appointment, so I can retouch your sleeve if you want.”

“Oh, awesome,” Pinoe says, standing up. “It was great to see you, Christen. Come back anytime, bring Mal when you can.”

As she leads Pinoe into her station after bidding Christen farewell, something heavy settles on Rose’s chest, and she can’t help but recall a lit class she attended almost 10 year ago, and a quote about how knowing the name of something and truly knowing this something are two different things.

But again, she had a heavy lunch. That must be what’s weighing her down.

//

Rose makes the mistake of arriving too early on Wednesday.

For some reason she couldn’t sleep the night before, rolling around on the too-scratchy, too-hot sheets all night, so when the first rays of sunshine started poking out between her curtains at 5:32 AM, she had no choice but to huff, get up, feed Wilma, down a large cup of coffee and go for a run. 

Drenched and sore after running 5 miles, she knew she could fall back asleep if she laid down again, but determination made her drink another cup of coffee and start organizing her messy apartment while she had the energy to do it. Her place had a lot of vacant space now since her roommate, Sam, got married in the summer and left their deadbeat apartment for a really nice house in the suburbs.

Third coffee down, though, and she’s in front of the parlour a whole 30 minutes before opening time, seated on the bench, bored out of her mind as she watches the traffic intensify, playing games on her phone as more and more people wake up and head to work.

Caffeine usually makes her heart speed up and miss its beats, but, as Rose looks up from her 10th scroll through Instagram, her heartbeat skyrockets for a whole different reason, no drugs necessary.

Strolling down the street on the direction of the flower shop, is _the girl_.

The girl. The one Rose doesn’t even know but seems to be always on her mind lately. Mal Pugh, if she remembers correctly.

Rose takes a moment to properly look at her, the other girl oblivious to her presence while listening to something on her AirPods. She’s wearing a yellow jumper with a pineapple printed on its center, light-washed jeans and very comfortable-looking black uggs. Were it anyone else, Rose would scoff and laugh at that clothing combination, but the girl kinda pulls it off, looking every bit like she works on a flower shop, walking with an easy kind of confidence that makes it impossible for Rose to tear her eyes off of her. 

She enters the flower shop without noticing Rose following her movements like a creep, but when she turns around to flip the OPEN/CLOSED sign, their eyes meet.

Rose has half a mind to turn her eyes back to her phone, quickly pretend she was doing anything else instead of of watching that woman; she has no time, though, because the girl lifts her hand in a half wave, slight smile on her lips.

Panicking, Rose hastily waves back, sure that simple movement makes her look like a moron, heart beating wildly inside her chest.

“What’cha doin’ there?” Kelley asks right on her ear, coming out of nowhere and scaring the shit out of her. 

Rose flinches. “Holy fucking shit, Kelley, oh my God.”

“Don’t say fuck and God on the same sentence,” Kelley reprimands, sitting down beside her on the bench, cinnamon roll in one hand and reusable coffee cup on the other.

Rose sits there with her hand on her chest, heart hammering wildly, profusely keeping her eyes on the floor.

Kelly, though, as always, seemingly reads her mind.

“She’s pretty cute, isn’t she?” she asks, and Rose follows her line of sight straight to the flower shop. Through the glass windows, they can see the woman working inside, brooming the floor. 

“Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?” Rose asks, red flags blaring inside her mind. 

Kelley scoffs through a sip of her coffee. “Please, I’m not talking about me.”

Already aware of where this whole conversation is going to lead them, Rose gives Kelley a pointed look, advising her to drop that subject immediately, but Kelley only does what Kelley wants.

“Listen, it’s not because Andi broke your heart -”

“Oh my God, I’m not hearing you talk about Andi right now,” Rose groans

“I’m just saying, kiddo,” Kelley says, cinnamon coating the corners of her mouth. “It’s been a year.”

Rose rolls her eyes, her friend’s advice falling on deaf ears. Whatever happened between her and Andi - it was over and it didn’t matter anymore. She hates even thinking about it, and certainly doesn’t want to think about her failed relationships in the context of Kelley trying to set her up with a girl she doesn’t even know. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to think that much anymore, because Pinoe soon strolls down the street, rolling the shop’s keys on her fingers and softly whistling. “What are you two degenerates doing here so early?”

Following her coworkers inside, Rose barely hears Kelley and Megan joking. Instead, she turns around, glancing one last time at the flower shop. Her eyes meet up with the girl’s again, and her heartbeat spikes up.

 _Uh,_ she thinks, turning back around and entering the parlour. _Must be the coffee._

//

Jordan is the first to ask her.

“Hey, I have a flower design I want you to do for me.”

Rose blinks, drying her hands. She’s just finished one of those hipster-baroque-style type of tattoos on her friend’s collarbone, and she’s _tired_. “Huh?”

“A flower tattoo,” Jordan repeats, pointing to her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna send you some reference later,” she says, waving her hand in dismissal. “You can design it your own way, I know it’s gonna be good.”

Rose gets the text a while later, when she’s already home. There are two pictures: the first shows the tattoo Jordan probably wants her to copy, but placed on the leg instead of the shoulder; the second one is a picture of the actual flower, big white petals curling into a yellow-ish center. 

It’s not that Rose is unfamiliar with flower tattoos. She’s done a few before, right on the start of her tattooing days, when she would do any type of design.

Even so, it absolutely isn’t her area of expertise. When it comes to all the tattoo artists on the shop, each one of them has a very specific role.

Tobin is the popular one; she usually tattoos the surfers, the pretty girls, the skateboarders, the types who generally ask for flower tattoos or bibles verses or song lyrics. Kelley’s crowd is either the emos and the sadboys or the motorcycle riders; there’s no in-between. Pinoe only really tattoos close friends or Very Special People, like when the basketball player Sue Bird showed up on the shop 5 months ago and they ended up exchanging phone numbers.

Rose is more adept to the hipster crowd: the bearded guys, the plaid-wearing girls; the photographers and instagrammers who want very specific designs or minimalist tattoos that only she can do.

To say she doesn’t do flower tattoos often would be an understatement. She could probably count them all in one hand.

After she spends a good amount of time looking and analyzing the reference pictures Jordan sent, browsing Google Images for similar photos, she decides to start sketching an initial design, one she can perfect and refine later.

And, when she fails at doing it, thinking that even the beginning stages of the drawing look way too plastic and impersonal and have no truth behind it, Rose closes her eyes, searching in her memory for a more familiar image. Her mind instantly conjures up her little cactus, sitting right on top of her work-table, and she decides to draw it instead, as an exercise.

And when she fails again, because the cactus looks way too childish and stereotypical and nothing like the somewhat charming plant she has on her office, she sighs and does the next best thing: ask for help.

Tobin answers on the third ring.

“Um, there’s no secret to it, really,” she drawls out, sounding like a wise old woman, after Rose asks her how she does it. “I’ve just always been around nature, so I guess it comes easier for me? Because of the connection? I don’t really know, Rosie.”

Rose closes her eyes, thinking about how she’ll get herself out of this one.

And then Tobin says, “It could help if you had first hand contact with the flower, though. Makes it more personal, I guess.”

A light bulb flashes in her head. _Oh_ , she thinks, opening her eyes. She knows what to do.

//

Rose has two appointments early the following morning that bleed into the early afternoon. She breezes through them easily, delighted at being able to do more simple tattoos once in a while: two brothers want their fraternity symbol marked on their forearms, and a young girl requests a horned skeleton that spans through most of her shoulders. Don’t shoot the messenger. 

When 1 PM rolls around, she tells Pinoe she’s gonna take a quick break, and her boss just waves her away, not lifting her eyes from the computer. 

Rose enters the flower shop tentatively.

She can’t remember the last time she was actually inside a flower shop - probably when she was a kid, obsessed with all colorful things but too young to know their meaning.

A small bell above the front door announces her arrival, chiming loudly. Rose almost jumps before she notices there’s no one inside the shop, taking the opportunity to look around. 

It’s bright inside the flower shop, a stark contrast to the blacks and greys that permeate the tattoo parlour. The walls are painted in soft yellows and blues, creeper plants filling the spaces in the walls where there are no pots, vases or planters. The rest of the shop, Rose notices, is filled with a variety of stands, shelves and racks loaded with all types of flowers, plants, herbs and the tools to care for them. A soft hum on the background is like white noise, and Rose quickly realizes it comes from glass doors refrigerators deftly placed on the back of the shop. 

It’s a sweet-looking place. Rose’s not sure how a flower shop is supposed to look like, but she’d bet her cards on being exactly like this: an earthy and watery smell in the air, strong but soothing, walls that make you feel like you’re welcome, no noise except the ones that come from the flowers tropisms. 

There’s something strangely soothing about being surrounded by plants and flowers, each of them unique and different in color, shape and sizes, some breeds she recognizes and others that are completely strange to her.

“Anything I can help you with?” a voice behind her asks, and Rose spins around to face _the girl_. Mal, her name-tag says. 

A tiny flash of recognition passes by the girl’s face, but she quickly scowls it back into a face Rose assumes it’s her costumer-face: seemingly interested but not overly prodding. 

Rose can’t stop staring.

She can’t stop staring because the girl has the softest and warmest brown eyes Rose’s ever seen, and her heart just about stops. Can’t stop staring at the small scar resting on the middle of her forehead, can’t tear her eyes away from the smudge of freckles that starts on her nose and curls around her cheekbones.

_Oh, wow._

Mal raises her eyebrows, and Rose’s reminded of where she is.

“I would like - a flower,” she stammers out, feeling every bit like the 14-year-old boy she surely feels right now.

The girl squints her eyes. “I think you’re on the wrong place,” she says, moving past Rose to stand behind the counter. 

Rose blinks, suddenly confused. “Is this not a flower shop?”

“I think you’re in the wrong place, miss,” Mal says, a serious look on her face. Rose frowns, feeling suddenly lost in the middle of that _not_ (?) flower shop. She turns around to leave, but is stopped by laughter behind her. “Oh my God, I’m kidding, I’m so sorry. Yes, this is a flower shop, sorry. What type of flower would you like?”

Still feeling like she’s in whiplash, Rose pulls out her phone, showing the woman in front of her the flowers Jordan had sent.

Mal hums. “White carnations. I think I have just what you’re looking for.” She circles around Rose to stand in front of a huge vase with flowers that look like fresh popcorns. “How many would you like?”

Rose clears her throat. “Just a few is fine.”

Mal carefully picks a small handful of fresh flowers, moving to stand back behind the counter. “Anything else I can help you with?” Rose shakes her head. “That’ll be 8 dollars.”

While Rose fishes for the money in her wallet, the woman carefully packages up the dozen flowers - white carnations, now Rose knows - stringing them together delicately with a pink ribbon that Rose recognizes is the same that adorned her cactus. When Mal places the arrangement inside a thin paper bag, petals coming out of the package, her mouth curls in a soft smile, and Rose’s transfixed.

“Is this for a garden or a special occasion?” the woman asks, staring intently at Rose.

“Not really,” Rose answers, dropping a few dollar bills on top of the counter. “I, um, work at the flower shop across the street, and one of my clients wants this flower tattooed.” She nods curtly, mostly to herself for being able to finish a whole sentence. “I figured seeing it in real life would help me, um, design it better, I guess.”

“That’s very dedicated of you,” Mal says, and Rose, browsing through the birthday cards on the counter, almost misses the small smile that curls around the woman’s lips. “Do you work with Tobin and Kelley?”

She nods. “I’m Rose.”

“Nice to meet you, Rose,” the woman says with a teasing tilt to her voice, handing over the flower package. “I hope these help.”

The sincerity in her voice makes Rose catch her breath, and she leaves the shop with the flowers clutched tightly against her chest, a nagging feeling rising through her body and threatening to make her hopeful.

//

(Her attempts to be sly fail miserably. Tobin and Pinoe still tease her merciless once they see what she’s got in her hands.

Kelley, meanwhile, just looks pointedly at her, raising her eyebrows, and Rose fights the urge to stick her tongue out.) 

//

Jordan turns around in front of the mirror, checking out both sides of her shoulder.

There, now, lies an average-sized tattoo of a white carnations garden, curling around the nape of Jordan’s neck and standing out against her golden skin. 

Rose is blatantly proud of it, even taking a picture of it to post on her Instagram, planning of tagging it with #tattoolife or #flowertat or something equally as obnoxious.

“Dude, this is sick,” Jordan says, awe in every single inch of her voice. “It turned out even better than I thought.”

“Glad you like it,” Rose says, biting back a smile while searching the cabinets for some healing lotion.

“It’s so good,” Jordan insists. “I love the little shades of brown you scattered around it - makes it look, I can’t even explain it. Soft and soothing, somehow.”

Rose shoves the lotion on her friends hands, making their goodbyes quick, hoping to god the blush on her cheeks isn’t so obvious.

//

Lindsey is the next one, mostly because Lindsey’s a little shit.

Even worse - she’s a little shit who’s know Rose all her life and has more leverage than she should.

It’s on a rare Wednesday off for Rose, her first instinct when faced with free time being to drive to Sonny’s apartment, just a few miles away from the californian coast, bottle of wine on the passenger seat and the knowledge Lindsey would be there too.

They’re all sprawled out on different cushions around the living room, binge-watching a Netflix show about a bodyguard that Rose stopped paying attention to 3 episodes earlier. The bottle of wine sits empty on top of the coffee table, just like forgotten bags of chips and the many beer bottles they found of Sonny’s fridge.

Sonny turns off the TV at the end of episode 5, muttering, “That’s enough,” as she heads to the bathroom.

Lindsey moves to sit like a normal person, turning from an upside down position on the couch and nearly kicking Rose, who was laying on the floor, in the face. 

“Ow,” Rose exclaims just for the dramatics.

Lindsey rolls her eyes, pointing to the coffee table. “Shut up and give me my phone.”

Rose hands it over to her, laying back down on the carpet, eyes closed and hands behind her back. The weight of the day suddenly falls over her like a ton of bricks, and she briefly wonders if Sonny’s roommate, Hayley, would let her crash on the couch.

She can feel herself drifting briefly into slumber, only for Lindsey to interrupt her peace. “Since when do you do flower tattoos?” her friend asks loudly, throwing a pillow at her.

“I don’t,” Rose says, voice muffled by the pillow. “Not really. Jordan asked for one and I did it.”

“I want one too.”

The way Rose can practically hear the pout on Lindsey's voice makes her whip the pillow out of her face, shooting Lindsey a threatening look. “Don’t even start.”

“C’mon, Rose,” Lindsey whines. “You know I’ve always wanted some sunflowers on my thigh.” And then Lindsey proceeds to take off her shirt even though she’s pointing at her upper leg, mostly because she’s a psycho but also because she’s extremely convincing when she’s half-naked.

“I’m not gonna do it,” Rose huffs. “Put your shirt back on, you freak.”

“Not unless you say you’re gonna do it.”

Rose shakes her head. “Grow up.”

Here’s what Rose knows about Lindsey: when it comes to her, there’s some limits you can never cross.

Here’s what Rose doesn’t expect Lindsey will do: straddle her lap and karate-pin her to the floor, holding her arms beside her body and staring down at her with the faux-threatening look that only people on the other side of drunkness can muster up.

Rose squirms to try to get away, but Lindsey is solid on top of her. “Let me go, you weirdo.”

“Tell me you’re gonna tattoo a sunflower on me.”

Deep down, Rose knows she’s not getting out of there. Lindsey’s a professional athlete, her muscle weight alone is twice Rose’s normal weight, and she most definitely has the upper hand, on a sitting position and intent on getting what she wants.

Rose tries to pull her arms away a few times more, trying to activate her core strength, but Lindsey has her in such a tight grip that Rose is forced to give up, huffing and saying, “Alright, geez. I’ll do it, now let me go.”

Lindsey exclaims an _aha_ in victory, smiling with her teeth and leaning back to rest on the back of her heels.

Rose only loses the scorn on her face when both of them lift their heads to the hallway once their hear a confused sound come from Sonny, who’s staring at the scene in front of her with a frown.

Lindsey opens her mouth to explain herself, but Sonny waves her hand, moving to the kitchen. “Don’t even bother.”

//

Rose only hesitates for a few seconds this time.

The bell above the door greets her as she gets in, quickly spotting a familiar face behind the counter. Mal is exchanging pleasantries with a customer, talking rapidly with her hands, but as soon as she sees Rose a smile stretches her features. 

Rose’s hands feel clammy all of the sudden, but she stores that information on back of her brain.

“Thank you, hope to see you again,” Mal says to the costumer as he leaves the shop. As Rose approaches the front counter, the girl’s eyes zero on her face, and Rose it’s hard to look away from brown eyes that shine so brightly. “You’re back!” the girl exclaims. “So, how did it go with the white carnations?”

“Great,” Rose answers honestly. “Actually, I have another request for you…” Rose squints, pointing at the girl’s name-tag in as if she doesn’t already know her name. “... Mal.”

Mal nods softly. “I’ll do my best.”

Rose fishes her phone out of her pocket, scrolling through the pictures Lindsey sent her. “Think you can help me with this one?”

Mal scans the picture quickly, mumbling _this one’s easy_ under her breath. 

She leaves the counter to scan the shelves and the pots in search of the yellow flower, and Rose is content with following her along the store with her eyes, noticing how Mal carefully selects each flower as if it’s an art, smoothing petals and leaves, pursing her lips before she decides which flower she wants.

Rose soon notices there’s not much difference between being a tattoo artist and a florist: both have everlasting concerns with color, both care deeply about meaning and intention, both work and feel with their hands, both are interested in the outcome of their creations.

She supposes being a florist, too, is like being an artist, and if that’s true then the woman in front of her is a prime example of this. 

Rose tries very hard to pay attention to the sunflowers and how she could spin them into a nice tattoo for Lindsey, but she’s more preoccupied with her racing mind and the associations it makes, with the way Mal’s fingers curls around the packages, how she fixes and smoothes the petals in order to make them more presentable. 

Rose goes back to the parlour with fresh flowers under her arm, brand new inspiration and a sense of excitement and contentment that even makes Pinoe’s relentless teasing worth it.

//

The days pass, and things are put into better perspective.

Some days, Rose arrives earlier on the shop on purpose, intent on sitting on the bench outside just to watch as Mal goes through her careful opening ritual. 

Sometimes Rose gets a wave in greeting, sometimes she gets a nod of the head. 

(Most days she feels her heart race and her palms sweat. Most days Rose needs to push intrusive thoughts to the back of her head, intent on not dwelling too much on things she isn’t sure of. Most days her brain tries to fight her, and the voice inside her mind asks her what she’s doing, what’s her intention, what does she want with that.

She tells that voice to shut up.)

Life moves on. Rose tattoos more people than she thought possible, she has dinners and weekends with her parents, and brunches and parties with her friends. She ignores deeper questions because she doesn’t have the answers to them, and she learns to live with that.

//

One of the weekends finds Rose standing under the humid winter of Los Angeles, feeling the grass of the high-school soccer field under her cleats, one that's moderately better than the usual fields Lindsey finds everytime they do this.

 _This_ is the way Lindsey and Sonny and all their soccer friends find to stay healthy and competitive even during Sacramento United’s offseason: gathering a few of their friends on a shitty field to play some meaningless matches is what keeps their soccer juices flowing. 

Kelley and Tobin, dying to relive their college soccer days, are always the first ones to confirm attendance. All the aussies drive down to LA so everyone can goof around together, and even their more serious and responsible friends, like Sam and Abby and AD, love to kick the ball around every once in a while, desperate to shake off the normalcy of their everyday, adult lives.

Rose can rarely deny Lindsey and Sonny anything. She’s even convinced to dress up like her old high-school self: Hamm jersey on her back, pink pre-wrap on her head, fluorescent cleats that stood by her through all her teenage years making an appearance.

There is no sun this time, and Rose is already regretting how she’s not gonna sweat and therefore won’t be able to count this as her exercise of the week. Soft drizzle falls over her head while she adjusts her shin guards and ties her cleats, only halfway listening as Abby tells her, Sonny and AD about her job promotion.

Kelley is running laps from one side of the field to the other, and when she finally stops on the sidelines, still bouncing with accumulated energy, Rose asks, “When are we gonna start?”

Her friend has her eyes glued to the parking lot, eyes frantically searching even when she answers, “In a sec, kiddo.”

Kelley runs straight to Tobin on the other side of the field, and Rose thinks nothing of it, loudly summoned by Ellie up on midfield to practice some back and forth passes. It’s easy to distract herself with the physical part of the game, to focus on the accuracy and versatility of her passes until she forgets her surroundings, transported back to a time when she was just a kid from Ohio who liked to draw and loved to play.

It’s so simple to lose herself in the moment that she doesn’t even notice when two new people enter the field until Tobin’s yell takes her out of her reverie.

“Chris!”

Rose whips her head to follow Tobin’s voice, in such a sudden movement that she misses Elli’s pass, but right in time to see how her friend launches herself at Christen, hugging her tightly with Kelley hot on her heels. A looming figure catches her eye, slowly walking behind Christen with a duffel bag on her shoulder, and Rose feels her hands prickling when she realizes it’s Mal.

“What are they doing here?” she asks a clueless Sonny, who simply shrugs and walks towards them to introduce herself.

Mal’s presence is magnetic, and that’s something Rose is learning fast. When she’s in the room, it’s impossible not to notice every single detail about her. Mal has her hair fixed in a loose ponytail, bright orange cleats and an UCLA jersey that says (woah, that one Rose didn’t see coming) Pugh on the back.

Frowning, Rose jogs to the sidelines to meet them halfway. She can sense Caitlin and Lindsey watching from the other side of the field, and this feeling of being spied during an open interaction makes her suddenly uncomfortable, desperate to both flee and stay put.

Mal stops right in front of her, like it’s rehearsed. “Hey.”

There’s a smirk curling around her eyes, and Rose is struck by close they are to each other. “You play soccer?”

Mal opens her mouth to speak, but she’s interrupted by a very proud, almost motherly Christen. “Hermann Trophy finalist only in her junior year, you could say she plays _some_ soccer.”

“Being a finalist is not nearly as cool as winning it,” Mal mumbles, casting her eyes on the floor while Tobin and Kelley chuckle. Rose notices how her cheeks redden. 

Sonny quickly jumps in with a joke about how there’s no glamour in being a Hermann Trophy finalist, and she’d know. The other girls all introduce themselves to Christen and Mal, and Rose sees how Mal’s eyes shine every time she recognizes one of the girls as a professional athlete. 

Swallowing the jealousy bubbling up on her throat, Rose claps her hands. “C’mon, let’s play.”

The teams are quickly divided: Lindsey picks AD, Ellie, Abby, Rose, Tobin and newcomer Christen. That leaves Sonny with Jane, Kelley, Sammy, Mal, Hayley and Caitlin. 

It’s always fun when they play together. Rose’s one woman goal is to nutmeg Sonny as many times as she can, and today it seems like Tobin is trying to do the same with Kelley. Now that they’re on different teams, there’s a lingering sense in the air that they’re trying to one-up each other, and Rose suspects it has something to do with Christen’s presence.

For her part, Rose always plays like it’s an actual game. She knows she’s fast and tricky with the ball, even if her actual ability is inferior to the actual professional players on the field. Her biggest advantage is her height, that allows her to swiftly escape pressure and crowding, and that’s how she manages to twist around Sammy and jam the ball into the top left corner, Jane getting the worst end of their one-on-one. 

Hayley equalizes minutes after, leaving Abby on the ground on her way to goal. 

Rose senses how there’s a collective effort to play hard, probably fueled by the desire to impress the two strangers, their jerseys and legs dirty with mud. It’s no surprise to her how Sonny’s tackles are sharper than usual, or the way Cait’s always at the right place at the right time, or the way Sammy is bodding players like they’re not even there, using her height as an advantage.

What’s somewhat of a surprise to her is just how good Mal is.

Rose can see how Christen has definitely played soccer in the past, all with her amazing first touch and her curling balls from outside of the 18, but Mal’s a whole different story.

She’s quick on the ball, running past Ellie and Tobin like they’re not even there, wreaking havoc on the midfield in a way that has even Kelley running up to match her. Mal swiftly dribbles past Abby to speed through the left flank, and it’s her pass to Caitlin that has Sonny's team up by 2-1.

“Fuck,” Rose can hear Tobin mumbling from midfield. “Who let a college kid play against us?”

 _Same_ , is all Rose can think about.

The rain grows heavier after the goal, and they give up playing seriously in order to mess around and have fun. Sonny trips on a hole on the field and then pirouettes herself back up, and it’s so funny nobody can stop laughing for at least two minutes. Lindsey gets an excellent cross from Christen and lines herself up for a bycicle kick, but the ball sails over the crossbar and she falls directly on a pile of mud.

Rose’s best moment comes a few minutes before they decide to call it quits. She gets a nice, floating ball from Ellie, and makes the run for it from her own half of the field. She gets the ball on her left foot, preparing her body to kick it past Jane’s fingertips, but as she’s gearing up to take the shot Rose’s brutally tackled, the ball slipping away from her feet as she stumbles to the ground.

Spitting out rain water, Rose turns on her back, confused.

Mal’s stretched out hand is the first thing she sees. 

Of course.

Rose grabs her hand, gripping Mal’s forearm thightly and forcing herself into a standing position.

Mal doesn’t let her go immediately, searching her eyes instead. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Rose answers quickly, aware that the interaction is being closely watched.

Mal stares at her for a few more seconds and then allows her to go, the two of the running up to midfield side by side. 

The game only goes on for a few more minutes, the rain making it hard for them to actually play. Caitlin throws herself on the floor, refusing to keep playing under the excuse of tiredness. Ellie kicks some mud on her face, and soon enough half of them are wrestling on the ground while the others are using the heavy rain to wash the mud away from their bodies. 

After letting all the kids have their fun for a moment, Tobin claps her hands. “Alright, children. What do you say we get out of here and grab some pizza?”

“Losers pay,” Sonny screams, jumping on Lindsey and sending them both to the ground.

“I’ll pay,” Lindsey says, because she can never deny Sonny anything.

Ever the responsible adult, AD sends them all to the locker room to shower and change, and in no time Rose’s waiting under the covered bleachers, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram while her hair dries.

She’s in the middle of forwarding a few dog fashion ideas to her sister when she notices someone approaching her.

Her heart immediately starts racing when she sees it’s Mal.

(Rose is gonna call her mom’s cardiologist on monday, she really needs to get her heart checked if it keeps racing all the time.)

Rose only has time to notice how Mal’s dressed in a Youth National Team hoodie before the girl is right in front of her, asking, “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you back then?”

Mal’s wet hair frames her face delicately, and it’s all Rose can pay attention to when she stammers out, “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”

Mal nods, sitting down beside her.

There’s some sort of energy between them that’s so thick Rose could touch it with her fingers, and she’s not sure if she wants to stay or to go.

She chooses to point at Mal’s hoodie instead. “Didn’t know you played soccer.”

“Well, it’s not like we’ve had extensive conversations about our personal lives,” Mal says, teasing glint on her eyes that makes Rose blush. “But yeah I do. For UCLA and for the youth national teams.”

“Oh, wow.”

“What about you?” Mal asks. “Ever played soccer before?”

Rose bites the inside of her cheek. “Uh, for a while. During high school.”

Mal turns her body to fully face her. “And you never thought of playing professionally?”

“Kinda,” Rose answers, breathing through her nose. “I, um, teared my ACL during senior year, and playing was never quite the same after that.”

Rose risks a quick sideways glance into Mal’s eyes, and she’s surprised and relieved to see there’s no pity in them, only understanding. 

“Well,” Mal says after a beat. “You could have fooled me. I’m sure Alex Morgan could learn a few tricks from you.”

Rose rolls her eyes, smirking slightly, and Mal insists, “I mean it. It’s like you were born to boss the midfield around like you did today. And, I mean, we only played for an hour, two hour tops, and you were so good. You _are_ so good.” Mal moves to touch her arm, and her touch is electric. “It’s a shame you’re not playing professionally.”

Silence stretches between them, Mal’s fingers still touching her arm gently. 

Rose wants to speak, wants to open her mouth and blurt the first thing that comes to her mind. She wants to say how she’s grateful for the compliments, wants to say how Mal is so good that it feels like Rose is watching the next big soccer player right in front of her, wants to say thank you for all the help with the flowers and sorry if she seems distant and aloof around Mal, and that’s because Mal makes her nervous, makes her want to be smart and cool to impress her. 

Rose ends up not saying anything because, from the other side of the field, Kelley shows up yelling, scaring them both. “Hey, you two! In which car are you going? Mine, Lindsey’s or Christen’s?

“I’ll go with you,” Rose says, standing up quickly.

She leaves without saying goodbye to Mal and not even risking back a glance at her, ignoring Kelley’s frown all the way to the car.

//

On the pizza shop, Rose ends up sandwiched between Mal and Caitlin, and she’s hyper aware of the way her and Mal’s thighs are pressed together under the table. 

She eats 3 slices of pizza like they’re nothing, in a conscious effort to avoid saying something stupid, and Kelley and Tobin keep giving her weird looks.

Halfway through the dinner, when Lindsey gets up to go to the bathroom, Mal finally notices the tattoo on her leg, downing a big gulp of soda, pointing at it and saying, “I helped pick those.”

Sonny and Ellie both ignore the way Rose cheeks flush and she offers no explanation, and she thanks God those are her best friends.

The adults eventually disappear out on the street, under the excuse of taking a walk while it’s no longer raining. 

Sonny, stuffed from pizza and milkshakes, starts recounting stories from her college days, and soon enough all of the players start talking about their craziest experiences playing on the professional league, the best players they’ve ever played against, their national team experiences and crazy locker room stories.

Rose notices how Mal unravels as the night goes on, charmed by the possibility of being a professional soccer player and experiencing similar things.

Deep down, Rose has no doubt she will, and, when their eyes meet after a particularly fun Hayley tale, Rose leans against Mal’s arm, hoping she understands the message Rose wants to send. 

//

On her mom’s birthday, Rose doesn’t even think twice.

She walks inside the flower shop with a kind of easiness that wasn’t there the previous two times, the kind that Rose feels it’s earned after they made each other eat dirt on the soccer field and after sitting way too close on the pizza shop.

The bell rings announcing she’s there, and Rose, only mildly freaking out, wastes no time moving to the front counter.

Mal’s there, organizing birthday cards on a little rack to the left of the counter, and she swiftly lifts up her head when Rose gets in, following her movements with the kind of undivided attention that makes Rose sweat.

“Hey, you,” Mal says, small smile on her face.

Rose nods. “Hi.”

“Another tattoo today?” 

“Um, actually no,” Rose says, watching as Mal cocks her head to the side in confusion. “It’s my mom’s birthday. Tomorrow. And I know one of her plants recently died but I have no idea what it’s called.”

Mal widens her eyes. “Do you think you can describe it for me?”

“They’re - small. The leaves are very thick and, I don’t know, kinda ashy? Oh, and there’s a thorn on the tip of each leave. Also, there’s a bunch of different types of these plants?” Rose sighs. “Sorry, I’m probably not helping you.”

“Don’t worry,” Mal says, small smile on the corner of her lips. “I think I know what you’re talking about.”

She disappears inside the shop for a minute. Alone, Rose looks around; the shop looks like it changes every time Rose steps inde of it, and she’s halfway through a thought about it happening because the flowers also grow and change every few days when Mal comes back. 

She’s holding a ceramic pot with a small plant inside it, and Rose’s brain lights up with in recognition. “That’s the one!” she exclaims. “Oh my God, what is it even called?”

“A succulent,” Mal says simply, and Rose can’t lift her eyes from her mouth. “Would you like to take this one?”

Rose nods, already rummaging through her wallet for some money. She drops some bucks on top of the counter while Mal works on retrieving the plant from its original vase and moving it to a decorative one.

As always, Rose is transfixed with the deft way Mal’s hands work, so familiar with the plants and the dirt that they become one. Rose, now somewhat more used to Mal, can notice the similarities between the way her fingers move and the way her feet move when she’s playing soccer. 

It’s cautious, almost reverent and loving, but never lacking intensity and attention.

“So,” Mal says, snapping Rose out of her reverie. “For a tattoo artist you don’t seem to have many tattoos yourself.”

“Uh, yeah,” Rose says, absentmindedly checking her arms. “Just one, actually.”

Mal hums, going back to wrapping the vase.

“What about you?” Rose asks. “Do you have any?”

“Nope,” Mal answers, popping the ‘p’ in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “Never truly found the right design.”

That paralyzes Rose, makes her stare right at Mal and wonder what does it take to inspire her, what art is meaningful enough to gain permanent placement on her body. 

“I mean, it’s a forever thing, you know,” Mal continues upon Rose’s silence. “And I want the right thing made by the right person.”

Rose nods. “No, yeah, I get it.” She looks at Mal straight in the eye. “I hope you find it.”

Mal shakes her head, giving her the heavy vase. They quickly part ways, but unbeknown to Mal her words struck Rose’s brain like thunder, her mind racing with the thoughts of watercolors and tattoos inspired by flowers and brown eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can follow me on @kithtattoofc
> 
> wash your hands, folks


End file.
